Soy Sólo Yo
by KimberlySan
Summary: Dust burned his eyes as he tried to shift on that road, the sounds of Ernesto's voice as comforting as he could be, all of these were all the senses he could recall. When it all went black, Hector knew it was final... The story of Hector's life after death.
1. Death

_This is a piece about Hector after he died. Depending on what people think, I may keep going, adding more to what Hector did in the following 75+ years. Including what it was like to find out Imelda died, because you know he'd end up trying to see her._

* * *

The pain overshadowed the panic.

Clearly it was severe, the blinding pierce of internal convulsions, how his very insides seemed to twist and tear. While he would like to believe his last thoughts were pure of heart and visions were of his beloved _familia_ , Hector could not make due to even comprehend anything but the discomfort. Dust burned his eyes as he tried to shift on that road, the sounds of Ernesto's voice as comforting as he could be, all of these were all the senses he could recall. When it all went black, Hector knew it was final.

* * *

The first day being dead was a shadow, he barely recalled much of what occurred. Not all of the deceased went directly to the Land of the Dead, some wandered upon their first days of death. Ones who's souls died so suddenly, with no expectation or warning were typically the ones to suffer through a wandering purgatory, before others could find them. Luckily ( loose term ) for Hector he had died close by a graveyard, where a hawk shaped _alebrije_ took him under wing; literally.

There was a shock to his system the moment he finally realized that it was no illusion. No deluded visions, he could see colors and hear just as if he were alive, but there was emptiness in places where he used to need fulfillment. No hunger came, no exhaustion. While others around him, the 'lost souls' whom shared areas of dwelling gave advice and assurance, Hector was abnormally confused and shocked by his sudden death. In reflection, he hated himself for the fact that for the first week he could not remember his wife nor child.

For that time he was among the ones who's families had abandoned or forgot them; where they all only had each other. Without even remembering his own name, there was nothing for him to rely on, nor a face recognizable when all he could see were skeletons.

Coco's voice came to him first. A memory. While he sat against the wooden planks of the lowest point of the piers staring into the mirrored water, her tiny song came to his aching head. Trying to reclaim some of his life beforehand had been a constant nightmare - all he knew was music, the way guitar strings felt against his fingertips and a best friend who had seen him die. But a song, _his song_ , was the first beacon of light since he had taken placement in the Land of the Dead. A charming, dear voice singing along with her Papa when he had to leave her for his work. If the dead had abilities to cry, tears would come without question. Bony fingers clutched the rib-cage where a heart had once been, while it all came flooding back.

Younger years, courting his _preciosa_ Imelda and serenading her while in turn becoming a willing victim to her alluring voice. Coco's first steps, how timid she had been and yet the fire of her mother's heart taking over swiftly. What he wouldn't give to hold her again, to cradle her as she slept and listen to Imelda as she would hum lullabies to hush them all to tranquil sleep. It was all he wanted, it was why he wanted to go home.

And now he never would.

* * *

Día de Muertos was approaching months after he had first died. Acceptance of his predicament had come to full light; while he could still be bitter about the inability to tell his family how much he loved them, at the least Hector could come to the world of the living for one night a year. It would be enough to find his beloved Coco dancing with her Mama, while music flooded their home as it often did before. He could be there in spirit. He could show his love the best way he could.

A once removed _tío_ of his mother's side had found him in the Land of the Dead, the only family Hector ever found on the Rivera heritage, as the rest had been so scattered by various issues and deaths. Including the revolution which took place so many years before his own birth. Due to the one family member he did have, at the very least, Hector could learn what he could about the world they now survived in.

Hector waited patiently to cross the bridge, the nerves he once could conquer with a strum of guitar bubbling up to the very core of his bones. After all, it would all be still fresh, his death. Perhaps there would be no music, simply the sad faces of his family while he looked on and unable to embrace them with any amount of warmth. Imagining his dear Coco with tears... it broke him more it lingered.

" _Hola_ , is this your first time?" He must have looked the part. The kind woman seemed cheerful enough, motioning for him to approach as it was his turn.

It had taken him a few weeks to really accept that he was a skeleton just like everyone else. "Sí señora, gracias. I uh, want to visit my family."

"Of course you do! Just stand there, I'll make sure you're on your families ofrenda."

Hector did as told, waiting with eyes wide. For the first time since his death, he was feeling happy. Content. All he needed to do now was take a walk and he'd be with the ones he loved more than anything in the world.

"Oh no, I am so sorry señor. You are not on the ofrenda."

"Qué? No, no, I should be there - check again."

Imelda would never abandon his memory, not when he had vowed to love her and Coco until the end of all time. It could have been a mistake, perhaps whatever these bridges used was faulty and she'd soon allow -

"Afraid not. Without your picture on the ofrenda, you cannot go across the bridge."

Struggling to comprehend the situation, it took Hector several minutes before he had to be forcibly moved from the spot. A dozen and more thoughts were going through his mind as he stumbled around towards his 'home', how _surely_ Ernesto would have informed his family of his death. Perhaps they were still so suffering from the shock just as he, they misplaced the family photo. While his _tío_ offered what he could, Hector didn't know what else to do. For the moment, he was stuck without a soul to accept his presence.

Once more, he wanted to weep and yet even _that_ simple indulgence would be denied.


	2. Hope

_Tío Duarte is my own character! Basically, he's Hector's mother's brother-in-law. Scarcely related but still family. I'd like to think he'd at least help Hector out especially for the first years of his death._

* * *

"Don't be so dramático, Hector! You have to let it go."

"How is this being dramatic, Duarte? They had no photo on the ofrenda! Imelda... she would have put it up, she would have remembered!"

The argument had been going on for what seemed hours; if there was even an argument to hold any longer. Pain still etched in his hollow chest as if bees stung repeatedly upon open flesh - but there was none to be had. It was a certain feeling no one could explain lest they were dead themselves, something like a ghost limb or sensational array of numb tingling throughout a body no longer alive. Hector could feel, but not in the sense of any living thing.

Duarte was an energetic man, much, much older than Hector when he died. His bald head was represented with the off white of his skull, details of markings fading from the years of being in the same situation his nephew was now in. While it seemed his uncle had no worries of being forgotten, despite the lack of appreciation or commitment of his own family across the bridge, Hector was not going to write himself off so easily. The week before, when he was left alone to watch as others crossed over to mingle with family had been one of the worst feelings he could think of. Besides the actuality of his death.

"...and Coco, she needs her Papa. If even once a year, to cheer her on. Mi pequeña niña, I have got to make sure I will be remembered next year."

"And how do you plan on doing that, eh?" Now to his limit, the older man turned on his broken heel, lifting the cane he used to assist him in walking to poke Hector against the ribs. With a slight thump the wood poked briefly between the rigid bones, something that still gave Hector a jolt of remembrance. How would his Coco react to see a skeleton for a father?

Duarte groaned as he jerked back his cane, continuing. "Listen to me mi sobrino, you are dead! Even if you go to see your family next year, they may not want you! This is our life, Hector. It is just as it should be."

"How can you say that?" Hurrying to try and explain, Hector's hands went up in a desperate need. Fingers curled, as if he were cupping an imaginary bowl. "We can't be just written off... please, tío. Is there anything you know? About talking to the living?"

"No." A firm shove and his uncle kept on, but the younger could not muster the strength to keep up. Coming to a standstill in the street, Hector was simply too heartbroken to move ahead. Duarte would not help him, the world of the dead seemed to reject even the implication of someone attempting to communicate with someone living. They would simply fade in time, alone in their small hut of a home, wishing only for some sovereign or perhaps angel to take them from these slums.

While Duarte had been giving, finding Hector clothing and a place to at the very least be at peace... there had to be a way to escape the inevitable.

* * *

It turned out, death did not mean the end of his life. Some would say differently, with the agony of never being able to see family nor friends until they too decided to pass, but there were charms of the Land of the Dead even Hector could not deny. Music, so much music, as if he had been removed from the living world for this purpose alone. While he had no gifts bestowed upon him by his family nor did he have the abilities to even produce something of merit, he did have music to keep him afloat. During the night, he would chime along with other musicians, miss the feeling of his prized guitar under his arm and wish beyond measure he would sing with Imelda once again.

All the while, he listened to stories from the other players and take his experience in other places of the world he now inhabited, waiting for some sort of sign he'd be able to change his certain fate.

It came to him in an unusual way, a short aged man named Chicharrón.

He had been a regular around the forgotten, and yet never before had Hector met him. Likely due to the stories the old man was giving out between each round of drinks, telling tales of his life as big as any mountain. Nearly none believed him, but how he held a guitar ( one he stated was gifted to him by his madrina ) and sung in his deep voice of deeds done made Hector want to believe. It was a mark of a true storyteller and for countless nights he listened and imagined - making his old life seem like nothing worth speaking of.

One night made it particularity fascinating, drawing Hector like a moth to flame.

"..her voice was so angelic, I had to see her! When I started to sing, it was like.. she could hear me!"

The small crowd shook their heads, laughing in disbelief. Murmurs came up; "She was alive, no?" "Impossible!" "Ridículo viejo, the living can't hear us!"

"Oh you do not believe me? Well it is as true as my skull! She sang to me, looked right at me, and even whispered my name." As if Chicharrón were there, his bones plucked on the strings, making a song out of simple tuning.

"I believe you." Hector spoke up so suddenly, he nearly didn't believe he voiced words at all. "When was this? Could you do it again?"

Few of the others were all distracted at this point, giving themselves talks among the ones closest to them. Hector dismissed the hushed whispers of denial, this was the hope he had been searching for, the ability to try and see his family and tell them he was sorry for leaving the way he did.

Inching closer, he offered his name and shake of hand, which was met with a quick enthusiasm from Chicharrón. "Sí, sí. The living listen to music, just as we do. It connects us."

"Did you go on Día de Muertos?"

"No, this happened on the anniversary of my death. I came to the spot I perished and a new home has been placed! My surprise.. when a woman was there before me. Ah, Juanita. What a

patito feo.."

Smile was wide and the emotions coursing through him was nothing but thrill. If he could visit on the day he died... then Coco would hear his song, just for them.


End file.
